


Together

by bigblueboxat221b



Series: Free Will [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Honey, M/M, Old Age, Retirement, Till Death Do Us Part
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-12
Updated: 2018-05-12
Packaged: 2019-05-05 18:02:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14624109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: The epilogue to the Free Will series.Please read end notes for MCD details if you believe you should know more.





	Together

 

“The last box,” Mycroft said, wincing as he stood upright.

“We are officially moved in,” Greg replied, winding his arms around Mycroft.

“We are,” Mycroft told him, “Permanent residents of Kingston, Sussex.”

“Retired, permanent residents,” Greg amended, earning himself the smile he’d been hoping for. It brought out a fine road map of wrinkles now, but Mycroft’s eyes were still the clear grey Greg loved.

“Retired permanent residents with a cat and two dogs,” Mycroft added.

“And a part ownership in a bakery,” said Greg, “and several fields of wildflowers, an apiary and a surprisingly successful honey-farm.”

“I can’t believe my brother moved down here,” Mycroft grumbled.

“Yes you can,” Greg reminded him. “You encouraged it, if I remember rightly.”

“I did not,” Mycroft protested, but Greg cut in.

“You forbade him from doing it, which we both know translates as ‘Please Sherlock, do this exact thing’,” Greg replied. “Plus you’d already bought the land and had the wildflowers seeded so the bees would have somewhere to..bee.” He grinned at his pun.

“Oh alright,” Mycroft conceded. “It’s not terrible having Sherlock here.”

“See?” Greg told him affectionately. “It’s not so bad admitting that, is it?”

Mycroft gave him a look of exasperation.

“And now I’ll be able to focus on my vegetable marrows,” Greg told him with satisfaction.

“I’m sure all those second place holders will be ecstatic to hear it.” Mycroft replied. “How many years have you won the Sussex Downs Agricultural Show award, now?”

“A few,” Greg replied modestly. “Thomas wants to help, this year.”

“Of course,” Mycroft replied. “Your great-nephew showed great interest when they last visited.”

Greg rolled his eyes. “With a title like that I’ve finally earned this, I suppose,” he said, pointing to his hair, now more white than grey.

They smiled at each other in the sitting room of their (now permanent) home.

+++

“Do you think Sherlock gets it now?” Greg asked some time later as they sat with their tea and toast.

“I believe he understands, yes,” Mycroft replied.

He thought back to the conversation he’d had with Sherlock. It had been not long after he and Gregory had resigned; the first real conversation they’d had in a long time, if ever. Sherlock had scoffed at the idea of living in the country, so far from London. It was John who had changed his mind of course. Many years later when he had come home one day from the surgery and announced he wanted to retire somewhere quiet, Sherlock had consulted his brother. Within 24 hours of Mycroft’s carefully carried out double-bluff, Sherlock and John owned not only a house but several acres of freshly sown wildflower fields and a small apiary. They had moved within the week.

Mycroft and Greg had continued to work for MI5 intermittently, neither able to completely let go of the jobs they had derived deep satisfaction from completing. It was not until Mycroft had asked Greg what he wanted for his seventieth birthday that Greg had told him.

“I want us to retire.”

Mycroft’s response had been immediate. He had not spoken to Greg, but picked up his phone and called Roger. “We’re done,” he said, eyes locked on Gregory’s. There was a flashback to a time many years ago – sitting in a hospital room, still reeling from the near loss, when he had done the same. Made a phone call without hesitation, demonstrating his total commitment to keeping them together. Now, their older bodies pressed together in silent appreciation and love, the urge to be close still as strong, and somehow deeper with each passing year.

And so here they sat, looking out over perfectly tended vegetable beds, eating honey produced by his still unpredictable brother. When they had learned the bakery was to go out of business – the original baker’s daughters had taken over, but with children of their own it was too much – Mycroft had bought a controlling interest in the business. He ensured everyone received a generous wage, asking only that they employ and train local people as bakers – and spend as much time as they needed with their families.

And that chocolate croissants were baked three times a week – Gregory’s only real indulgence.

They’d done the same for the newsagent, expanding it to offer a range of honey related products produced by his brother’s farm. Sweet Rosie’s Honey Farm had been more successful than anyone considered it might, and now John was trying to convince Sherlock to slow down and let the local couple who apprenticed there – the youngest son and daughter-in-law of the Pressmores – begin to take over the day-to-day running of the business. It was a losing battle for the time being, but John was nothing if not patient.

Mycroft, if he had to choose a word to describe the latter years of his life, would choose grateful. He was grateful he and Gregory had been given a second chance after that terrible day so long ago. He was grateful they had taken the opportunities given over so many years – the memories they had made were bright jewels in his mind and he adored them every day. He was grateful Gregory had been patient and kind, understanding over so many years as Mycroft endeavoured to be everything he deserved. And always, he was grateful that along with everything that had happened with Gregory, his relationship with his brother had repaired itself to the point where they could, however grudgingly, admit their pleasure in each other’s company.

+++

Time moved on, the seasons turning slowly as they always did.

The last of the honey was gone, now. With a sigh, Mycroft stood, clearing crockery from the table. He washed up, smoothing a dry cloth over the clean dishes before replacing them in the cupboards. Looking around made him smile – one last smile before bed, he thought. Before he joined Gregory.

Walking slowly up the stairs – his hips were not as flexible as they had been – Mycroft turned to the bedroom. Gregory was waiting for him in bed, the lamp throwing soft light across the room. He had not moved, of course, and Mycroft’s spare weight on the mattress barely dipped the covers any more. Shuffling down, Mycroft lay on his side, facing Gregory.

He looked like he was asleep.

Exactly as he had been an hour ago, when Mycroft had joined him upstairs. Five minutes, he’d said in the kitchen. I’ll meet you there. I love you.

Thank God he’d said it. The words were a constant in his mind, background to all else he did and said with respect to Gregory, and he knew he never said them enough. But this time he had.

The last words he would ever say to Gregory.

Last words before – heart attack? Stroke? Given how peaceful he looked, tucked up in bed waiting for Mycroft, it was probably a stroke. Quick. Painless.

For Gregory at least.

When Mycroft had realised, had seen the still form and known it was over, he’d taken a single deep breath, sighing, “Oh, Gregory.”

At a loss, he had prepared for bed, then made his way back downstairs and made tea and toast, a last ritual as he wrote to his brother. The letter sat on the table in the kitchen. It asked only one thing of Sherlock – allow the others to take over the apiary and spend every second possible cherishing John. “For he,” Mycroft had written, “more than any other person, myself included, has loved and cherished you, Sherlock. He has brought the best of your to the fore, and I am forever grateful to him.”

Tea drunk, honey eaten, Mycroft looked one last time at the face of his beloved. He should be crying, he thought, but the idea made no sense.

He was going to see Gregory soon. Why on earth would he shed tears over something so joyful?

Closing his eyes, Mycroft breathed slowly and calmly.

In.

Out.

  
In.

 

 

 

Out.

 

 

 

 

FINIS.

**Author's Note:**

> MCD is natural causes x 2, one of which is due to the loss of will to live.


End file.
